winterbeach

by L. Ward Abel

A massive, barely rounded

white to green to brown line

breathing—these waters,

alive, would otherwise

leave, burned in a cold

January sun.

The astronauts spoke of

a change once they’d seen

themselves from out of range

—a quivering cell, a mostly

blue one, with skin-clear

cellophane

that cradles all we’ve been

and more, holding close

ten billion flashes, eyes—

see-through moving pictures

in and of, not the least within

our heaving swell.

Photo of L. Ward Abel

BIO: L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, Honest Ulsterman, Main Street Rag, others), including two recent nominations for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (Erbacce-Press, 2016), The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021), and his latest collection, (Silver Bow, 2023).  He is a retired lawyer and teacher of literature, and he composes and plays music (Abel and Rawls). Abel resides in rural Georgia.